


Drip. Drop.

by SunflowerSupreme



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Cultural Differences, Gen, Language Barrier, Misunderstandings, Past Child Abuse, eol doesnt deserve his son and anyone who says otherwise can fight me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-18
Updated: 2019-02-21
Packaged: 2019-10-30 15:19:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17831093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunflowerSupreme/pseuds/SunflowerSupreme
Summary: A newly orphaned Maeglin watches water drip on his balcony and reflects on the language barrier between himself and his new family.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> What is it with me and writing about Maeglin and water? I’ve got this and the bathtub scene in Mul Haust, so apparently, I’ve got a thing for Maeglin and water angst.

_Drip. Drop._

_Drip. Drop._

Maeglin watched the water dripping with rapt fascination. The moonlight reflected through the droplets like forge-fire in through a crystal.

He crouched lower, his dark robes pooling around him on the ground.

They had given him rooms in the Tower of the King, something he supposed was meant to be seen as an honor, as it only appeared to be himself, Turgon, and Idril who dwelled there. But either they had not been thinking or they had meant to remind him outright of who he was, as Caragdûr was clearly visible from his balcony.

From what his mother had said, he understood that Turgon was very wise, so Maeglin could not imagine him overlooking so plain a problem as placing Caragdûr outside his nephew’s bedroom.

_Drip. Drop._

_Drip. Drop._

So it was a warning then, a reminder of what happened to those who stepped out of line in this city of beauty. No matter, Maeglin knew what it was to be warned, at least these warnings had yet to turn physical.

So he kept his back to the mountain, sitting on his balcony, facing inwards, and watched the shine of moonlight in the water.

He knew there was a bath waiting for him, somewhere at the bottom of the Tower. His escort, a servant whose name he hadn’t caught, had told him as much, wrinkling his nose in a clear suggestion that Maeglin needed a bath.

The man had even told Maeglin where to find the bathing chambers, but that had been outside of Maeglin’s limited grasp of Quenya, and nothing else that he had said had made any sense.

_Drip. Drop._

The steady noise stopped as Maeglin stuck his hand in the stream, catching the droplets in his palm. The noise deepened and changed as the droplets tumbled not onto the stone, but into the growing puddle in his hand.

_Plink. Plonk._

_Plink. Plonk._

He was too afraid to admit to the language barrier, and uncertain that they would care, even if he brought it up. As such, he had had no way to communicate to the servant that his throat was parched and his lips cracking from thirst. Instead, during his exploration of his rooms, he had found the water dripping from his roof, no doubt a result of recent rainfall.

Once there was a fair amount in his hand, he drank it greedily.

It wasn’t enough to quench his thirst, but it did stave off the worst of it, and Maeglin scurried back into the room, recalling that there was a jewelry dish on one of the dressers. He took the dish out to the balcony and set it under the stream of water, waiting eagerly for it to fill.

_Splish. Splash._

_Splish. Splash._

He licked his lips as the disk slowly filled, barely able to contain himself from gulping it immediately. As he waited, he looked around himself nervously, suddenly overcome with a fear that he was going to tumble straight off the balcony and smash to his death on the stones below.

Abandoning the dish to fill on its own, Maeglin fled back inside his room. The darkness was welcoming, a soothing contrast to the blinding brightness of the city. Maeglin doubted his skin would ever heal from their desperate flight out of Nan Elmoth, the red patches beginning to peel and itch.

 _Sunburn_ , his mother had called it.

At the reminder of his mother, tears welled in his eyes.

Maeglin bit his cracked lip, drawing blood, but managing to keep the tears from leaking. He rubbed at his face with a filthy sleeve which did nothing but grind dirt into his eyes, irritating them further.

He caught a glimpse of a mirror on the far wall, reflecting the moonlight, and found himself unwillingly drawn to it. Maeglin stumbled across the room, staring at his sad reflection, barely able to recognize himself.

Red and black. He was nothing but red and black. His skin was red and peeling, his eyes were red from tears and dirt. Black was his hair, although it was a clumped mess from traveling. His clothing, a dark black except in patches on his sleeve, where his mother’s blood had stained it.

Maeglin’s stomach rolled and he struggled to get off his tunic. There were too many buttons, however, and in his frightened and hasty state, he couldn’t quite get his fingers to obey. Looking down at his hands, in an attempt to make undressing a simpler affair, he saw the blood around his nails as well.

Desperately he scratched at his hands, rubbing them together as though that would remove traces of his mother’s demise. He fled to the balcony, grabbing his dish of water and struggling to wash the blood from his nails.

He wasn’t even certain the blood was real. It might have merely been his imagination, but it was terrible enough either way.

That was when the king found him.

“Lomion?”

Maeglin had barely heard the door open, it was distant, as though it were happening somewhere else. He hadn’t even noticed Turgon’s presence until the other was touching him, catching his hands and speaking words Maeglin could only guess at the meaning of. The only word he understood was his name, the one his mother had given to him. _Lomion_.

He looked up at the king in fright, but Turgon merely continued speaking. He could barely guess the meaning of it, but he caught enough words that either his mother had taught him or that shared similar roots to understand that Turgon was reminding him about the bath.

Maeglin nodded. Yes, he wanted a bath. He wanted to be rid of the stain of his mother’s blood.

Turgon didn’t question Maeglin’s lack of words, instead pulling him to his feet and leading him from the balcony. Maeglin followed, partly out of desperation for water and partly because he was too afraid to argue.

_Swish. Click. Clack._

_Swish. Click. Clack._

The only noise as they walked was Turgon’s clicking jewelry and the swish of his robes. They passed no one on the winding staircase to the base of the king’s tower, and thankfully Turgon didn’t try to speak to him, instead letting Maeglin trail behind him like a despondent and smelly shadow.

He had expected Turgon to abandon him to clean himself - who wouldn’t, after all? - but to his horror, Turgon lead him into the bathing chamber and began speaking. Maeglin still could not understand most of his words, but his tone was soothing so he found himself nodding along. But when Turgon began to work on the buttons on his tunic, Maeglin realized with a growing sense of dread what he must have been offering.

It took all of his strength not to push Turgon back and flee the room, instead, Maeglin stood perfectly still as Turgon unbuttoned his shirt and slid it off him, leaving him in nothing but trousers and an undershirt.

Maeglin had spent enough of the journey from Nan Elmoth to Gondolin without a shirt (something he had done just because it would have angered his father) that his arms were as red and angry as the rest of him. Turgon remarked on the burns, running a finger down Maeglin’s arm, no doubt telling Maeglin what a fool he was for getting them. Maeglin said nothing, and Turgon moved on from the burns to inspect his tattoos with curiosity before helping him out of his undershirt.

Standing in front of the Lord of Gondolin shirtless was nothing short of a nightmare for Maeglin, but when Turgon moved to help him out of his shoes and trousers, it took all of his willpower to simply close his eyes and not scream. His face burned with embarrassment as his pants were pulled away - he hadn’t been naked in front of anyone since he was a child - but thankfully the sunburn on his cheeks hid the tinge.

He could vividly recall the last time he’d been naked in front of someone, when his father had given him the tattoos that ran down his arm and back, then forced him to undress so that their fellow smiths could see them. His father had intended to give Maeglin more tattoos, some that trailed down his leg, and he had wanted his fellow smith’s input on them, letting them mark out ideas in chalk on young Maeglin’s nude body. It had never been clear to the child if Eol had meant to distress him or not, but after that, he had refused any more tattoos and his father had responded by calling him a Noldo and slapping him.

A tremor of fright ran through Maeglin’s body, and Turgon looked at him, asking a question of which Maeglin only caught one word: cold. Maeglin nodded, yes he was cold if that pleased his uncle.

That was quickly proven to be the wrong answer, as Turgon took it upon himself to lead Maeglin to where the hot bath waited, guiding him into the tub as Maeglin continued to tremble.

Surely that ought to have been the end of it, but then Turgon took ahold of Maeglin’s hair where it fell over the edge of the tub and began to work on unbraiding it.

Maeglin hated having his hair touched.

Eol had done it. He remembered being a child, curling in his father’s lap and letting Eol bounce him as Aredhel watched. Eol had smiled at her and said how much Maeglin’s tresses reminded him of her. That had not been the only time the comparison had been made - far from it - but that was the one that stuck with him the most.

So to have Turgon stroking his hair, and to hear Aredhel’s Quenya name fall from his lips, brought another wave of terror through Maeglin. He managed to stay still that time until it was obvious his uncle was asking a question.

He didn’t catch the question but nodded anyway. Whatever kept Turgon happy. Whatever kept him away from the peak of Caragdûr.

The lord slipped from his side and for a moment Maeglin breathed a sigh of relief until he returned with something in his hand. It took a full minute for Maeglin to realize what he was doing, and by the time the scissors began to cut through his hair, it was far too late.

Instead, he sat in shocked silence as Turgon cut several inches off his hair.

_Snip._

_Snip._

_Snip._

Maeglin had, of course, noticed that his hair was longer than the Lords of Gondolin, but he hadn’t imagined Turgon cutting it off. Surely the man didn’t think this was helpful to him?

Turgon soon finished cutting and swept away the remains, then began running a comb through what remained of Maeglin’s hair, brushing away dirt and dust. He poured water over Maeglin’s hair, then picked the scissors back up to neaten the ends.

Maeglin told himself that surely the worst was over, that there was no way for Turgon to humiliate him further, but he was proven wrong almost immediately when Turgon brought a washcloth to his face and began wiping at the dirt.

Turgon was speaking again, but Maeglin couldn’t bring himself to even pretend to care, just tilting his head back, staring up at the ceiling, and letting his uncle wash him.

He laid perfectly still in the bath, ignoring the discomfort in his body and the twist in his stomach. Whenever he felt a protest rise to his lips, he remembered the Lord of the Golden Flower throwing his father to his death and kept his mouth shut.

When he was completely clean (and completely humiliated) Turgon helped him from the water with more murmured words he could not understand. Foolishly, Maeglin nodded along to them. Turgon wrapped him in a robe and carefully led him from the room, Maeglin tried not to tremble as his uncle’s hand remained on his shoulder, guiding him up the spiral stairs in the Tower of the King.

Turgon was speaking again, words such as _home_ and _mother_ and _Gondolin_ , but the rest Maeglin could only guess at. He just numbly nodded along, figuring that he could end up no worse off than he already was.

Despite the bath, his skin crawled. He felt dirty and violated.

That feeling was not helped when they arrived in his room and there was a tray of food waiting for them. He was grateful for the food (and more than that, the water to quench his thirst) but still, the thought that someone had been in there did not sit well with him. It might only have been his room for a few hours, but it still made the feeling of violation worse.

Turgon sat with him as he ate, and Maeglin found himself wishing he knew about Noldorin customs and manners, feeling small and dirty as he downed the food with his hands. But if Turgon disapproved of Maeglin’s eating habits, at least he didn’t speak it out loud.

He almost wished he would. At least then Maeglin would know that he had messed up, even if he couldn’t understand Turgon’s words. But somehow, the silence seemed worse.

Finally, Turgon turned his attention away from his nephew, standing and walking toward the balcony where he had found Maeglin. He picked up the discarded jewelry dish and poured out the water, then carried it back inside, setting it down on the dresser. He said something as he walked, no doubt scolding Maeglin for his carelessness, and Maeglin ducked his head in shame.

Suddenly, he was no longer hungry, and he pushed aside the food, looking around his room for something, anything, to distract himself. Turgon was still talking, and Maeglin could only continue to fake an understanding for so long before he was found out.

And then what? Turgon would not be pleased by his deception or his ignorance. A beating would be the least of his worries, Caragdûr past his balcony reminded him of that.

Maeglin stood and hurried to his bed, sitting on it and hoping Turgon would get the hint.

He did, but only partially. Turgon nodded and spoke, as though saying, of course, _you’re tired, you’ve had a long day._ But still, he didn’t leave, moving to Maeglin’s side and helping the other to settle into the blankets. It would have - should have - been humiliating, but after being bathed by the other it was nothing Maeglin couldn’t handle.

Turgon said more words, none Maeglin could understand, and then patted his nephew’s hand and stood. His had been blocking the window, but as he moved, Maeglin found himself staring outside into the night sky.

He could still see Caragdûr from his bed. The peak jutted in the distance and in the moonlight it was as beautiful as it was terrible.

Maeglin’s chest tightened and he grabbed for Turgon. The Lord of Gondolin seemed startled but didn’t push Maeglin away, speaking more words in Quenya that Maeglin couldn’t understand. He wouldn’t have heard them either way, the only words ringing through his head were his father’s.

_“Here may you yet die the same death as I.”_


	2. Chapter 2

His nephew was crying in the library.

Glorfindel had been the one to see him, apparently, and had left Ecthelion to guard the door and ensure no one else entered and bothered him. He was, thankfully, in Turgon’s personal library in the Tower of the King, which limited the number who could have witnessed the crying. Only Turgon and his closest advisors used that library, it was off-limits to the rest of the city.

Maeglin had been in the city less than a week, and in that time he had barely spoken to his uncle. His communication was limited to nodding and furtive glances, but Turgon allowed it, frustrating though it were, reminding himself that the boy had suffered a great deal.

They had barely even seen one another since the night Maeglin had fallen asleep in his arms, after that Maeglin had only appeared at mealtimes or when Turgon sent servants to fetch him. He was, if nothing else, obedient to a fault and always came when summoned, even if he sometimes had the look of a kicked puppy.

Ecthelion nodded as Turgon approached, “He’s the only one in there,” he said softly, “I don’t think he saw us.” Clearly, neither of the Lords had known what to do with him and assumed (incorrectly) that Turgon would.

He thanked them anyway, asked them to watch the door, and slipped inside.

They had reported seeing Maeglin at the far side of the library, in the section dedicated to the study of languages, and Turgon made his way there first.

He heard him before he saw him, the soft sound of sniffles echoing reaching his ears. Turning a corner, fell flat on his face.

Maeglin had been curled on the floor, leaned against a bookshelf (something Glorfindel and Ecthelion had failed to report) and when Turgon fell on top of him he let out a wail and a string of Avari curses (Turgon didn’t speak Avari, but the meaning was clear enough).

“Mind your mouth,” he grumbled, pushing himself to his feet. He’d meant it in jest, but when he saw Maeglin’s face he realized Maeglin hadn’t understood that. “Are you well?” he asked, deciding to change the subject.

“I’m sorry Uncle,” Maeglin whispered back. It was the first words Maeglin had spoken to him in over a week, and it came out in a strange Sindarin dialect, far enough from any that Turgon spoke that he had to stop to think for a moment. “I’m so sorry,” Maeglin continued, scrambling to his feet and then moving to help Turgon to stand as well.

A book that had been in his lap fell to the floor and Turgon stared at it in shock. He recognized it, a study written by Feanor when he had been developing the written language. But more than that, it was a version that someone - one of his Lords, he couldn’t recall which - had annotated, comparing Quenya to Sindarin. In fact, Turgon realized with a sinking feeling, it was exactly the kind of book that someone who was attempting to learn Quenya might look for.

He swore and Maeglin flinched.

It took a moment to process what he wanted to say, his Sindarin nowhere near where it should be, and as he thought he stood. Maeglin pulled further away, backing himself into a corner and staring at his uncle like a trapped rabbit.

“I’m sorry,” his nephew said again.

Finding the words he wanted, Turgon asked in rather poor Sindarin, “Lomion, do you speak Quenya?”

“I- I-” there were tears in Maeglin’s eyes and fear. Turgon reached out to comfort him and Maeglin flinched back, letting out a quiet sob. “Don’t,” he mumbled. There were words after that, but they were too soft for Turgon to understand, too jumbled and in a language, he was not comfortable with.

He could only imagine how Maeglin must feel, wonder how much Maeglin had understood. Looking at his nephew, with his freshly cut hair, he wondered how much of his care Maeglin had meant to consent to.

_What have I done?_

Turgon took a step back, realizing that he was trapping Maeglin in a corner. The youth was still apologizing, the words spilling from his mouth and twisted with evident fear.

“Lomion,” he said slowly, “I’m going to sit by the fire. Will you join me?”

Maeglin blinked, looking up at him slowly. The question had caught him off guard.

“It would please me greatly if you were to join me.” With that, Turgon stepped away, making his way to the sitting area by the fireplace.

It took several minutes for Maeglin to follow him, finally creeping out of the rows of bookshelves to stare at his uncle. Turgon offered him a weary smile and a greeting in Maeglin’s native tongue, “I apologize that I had not understood your difficulty sooner.”

For a long moment, Maeglin said nothing, then very softly he whispered, “Please don’t hurt me.”

Turgon stiffened. “Child why would I hurt you?”

“I broke the law.”

Turgon was perplexed and allowed it to show on his face. “Tell me then, what law have you broken?”

“I lied to you.”

“Whether or not you actively lied is debatable - concealed, deceived, perhaps - but regardless I do not think it is illegal to lie to your uncle.” He inclined his head, giving him an indulgent smile, and motioned for Maeglin to sit across from him.

Instead, Maeglin knelt on the stone floor at his feet, clasping his hands in his lap and staring down at them. “You are not my uncle, you are my king.”

“I can be both, Lomion, just as you are both my nephew and my subject.” Turgon sighed, glancing down at the sad mess of an elf on the floor. “I like to think that I am your uncle first and your king second.”

“If it pleases you,” Maeglin murmured, still not looking up at him.

Turgon pushed himself off the chair, sliding to sit on the floor beside Maeglin. “What would please me, is for you to tell me what I might do to aid you.”

Maeglin was silent for a moment, then whispered, “I want to learn to speak. Properly.”

“Then I shall arrange it.”

Maeglin only nodded, and Turgon found himself wondering if he truly wanted to learn Quenya, or if he was just saying what he thought might please his uncle. He could not for the life of him figure what kind of childhood Maeglin might have had. In the precious moments he had spent with Aredhel, there had been a clear enchantment on her, although he didn’t see the same in Maeglin. It was likely a child wouldn’t need enchanting though, and would merely follow the lead of adults.

“May I ask you something?” Turgon said after a pause.

“Anything you wish, my- Uncle.”

He couldn’t think of how to phrase what he wanted to say. In part, it was because he was too afraid of what answer he was going to get. Finally, he said, “Your first night here, how uncomfortable did I make you?” He dreaded the answer, but knew he needed it anyway.

The youth thought for a long moment, then said, “I am grateful for your hospitality.”

“That is not what I asked.”

Maeglin continued to study his hands.

Turgon gently caught Maeglin’s chin, turning his head to face him. “I cannot undo what I have done, but please understand, it was never my intention to cause you any level of distress.”

His nephew just nodded, and Turgon continued, “I was not thinking clearly, Lomion, or else I would have known better. I cannot imagine how it must have felt to be so exposed.”

“It is no trouble,” Maeglin said.

“I think that is a lie, but I will forgive it.”

Maeglin didn’t contradict him, and the two lapsed into an uncomfortable silence, broken only by the crackling of the fire. Finally, unable to take it any longer, Turgon pointed at the fire and asked, “What is that?”

“A fire.”

“The Quenya name for it, do you know it?”

“No.”

“ _Fir_.”

“ _Fir_ ,” Maeglin repeated.

“And the table?”

“I do not know.”

“ _Sarno_.”


End file.
